


Lip Service

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fic, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-24
Updated: 2011-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making rules and breaking them. (Spoilers for 3.10.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lip Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/gifts).



> Many thanks to Dragonfly for beta.

"Oh, hey, Jones."

Clinton smiled at the badly disguised surprise on Neal's face, pushed a bottle of single malt into Neal's hand and stepped past him into his apartment. The French doors were standing open, letting in a warm night breeze, and there was an open bottle of red wine on the table, a single glass next to the chess game in progress. Clinton looked around but there was no sign of an opponent. "Playing against yourself?"

Neal shrugged. "Peter and Elizabeth are barely speaking to me. Moz is sulking. Even June is mad at me."

"Why June?" The others were self-explanatory after the last week, when Elizabeth Burke had been kidnapped by Keller, and Neal had admitted to knowing the whereabouts of the art from the U-boat, incriminating Mozzie in the process, but June hadn't been involved in any of that, and as far as Clinton knew, she'd turned a blind eye to Neal's illicit dealings in the past.

Neal grimaced and took down whisky tumblers from the kitchen cabinet. "Nazi plunder," he said, opening the scotch and pouring them each a glass. He handed one to Clinton. "She disapproves."

"Oh, right." Clinton nodded and didn't pursue the subject. He was doing his best to overlook that association himself; Neal and Mozzie weren't bad guys, but they didn't always think through the implications of their actions, and this had clearly been one of those times. He raised his glass. "At least we got Keller."

"Yeah." Neal looked tired, but he accepted the toast. "We got Keller." He picked up the bottle and angled his head toward the French doors, and Clinton obligingly followed him out onto the patio, where they leaned against the rough concrete parapet and looked out at the city. They drank in silence, listening to the distant rush of traffic, the faint strains of orchestral music from a house across the street. "I screwed up," said Neal finally.

Clinton looked at him and was blind-sided by an untimely swell of affection. Neal's tie was slightly askew. There was a stain on his sleeve. Clinton suppressed the impulse to reassure him: it probably wouldn't be the wisest course. Aside from anything else, Clinton didn't want to betray Peter's justifiable anger. "Yeah, you did."

"I wasn't going to run with the art." Neal drained his glass and poured them each another generous measure. "I'd already decided that."

"If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be here," said Clinton. They were standing close, their elbows almost touching, and Clinton was fully conscious of the heat radiating from Neal's body, how easy it would be to shift his weight and brush against him. But it wasn't fair to take advantage when Neal was down. That wasn't why Clinton was here.

"Why are you here?" asked Neal, as if he could hear Clinton's thoughts.

Clinton swallowed a mouthful of scotch and shot him a wry glance. "Figured you could use the company."

"And?" Neal met his eye, and it was almost a challenge.

Clinton didn't back down. "And despite everything, I think your heart's in the right place. You want to be a good guy—you just don't really know how to go about it."

Neal's mouth tightened. "That's a little condescending." But Clinton just raised his eyebrows, and after a moment, Neal sighed and added, "And, okay, accurate. I appreciate the gesture—thanks."

Clinton shrugged and turned back to face the city before he betrayed the less altruistic of his feelings. The Chrysler building was lit up and seemed to dominate the skyline.

Neal took another swallow and he must have moved a little closer, because his arm grazed Clinton's. It was impossible to know if it was a deliberate move, if there was any intention behind it. If it was personal. Clinton hid his confusion in his glass.

"Can I ask you something that's none of my business?" asked Neal. His voice was quieter now, just between the two of them, and Clinton felt faintly hypnotized, out of his depth even though this was Neal, who he worked with every day, who was complicated and messed up but also _known_. What on earth could Neal want to ask him?

"Okay."

Neal licked his lip, and Clinton thought he caught a glimpse of uncertainty in his expression, but it was gone like a mirage or a flicker of flame. "That night I came over to your place," said Neal. "Would you have slept with Isabel, if you hadn't got called into the Bureau?"

"No," said Clinton, startled into bluntness. He looked into his glass, remembering that night: the laughing companionship with Neal, Isabel's unexpected, unwanted advances. "She's married to my friend, and I— No."

He felt like he should elaborate: it wasn't just about Isabel being married; he didn't want her anymore, that was over long ago. But everything he could think of carried too much subtext. It all came back to here and now. And he wasn't here to say anything or put Neal in an awkward position. Clinton was here to be a friend, period. Neal needed a friend right now.

But either Neal was telepathic, or he was thinking along the same lines Clinton had been since that night, because he turned to fully face Clinton, his eyes dark in the shadows, and the next thing he said was, "How about me? If Isabel hadn't shown up, if I'd made a move— Would you?"

Clinton stared into his eyes and tried to think. Was Neal trying to trap him into a dangerous admission? And even if he was, didn't he deserve the truth? "You were seeing Sara Ellis," said Clinton carefully. "And you were really drunk."

"Sara and I were over," said Neal. "Are over." He placed his empty glass on the parapet and moved closer. Closer than colleagues or friends. Close enough that Clinton could smell the ghost of his cologne, the warmth of his body, the scotch on his breath, could see the stubble coming through. Neal caught and held Clinton's gaze. "And that wasn't a 'no'."

"Well, I was pretty drunk too," said Clinton. Not so drunk he couldn't say no to Isabel, but drunk enough he might well have said yes to Neal. He took a half step back before Neal could do the math, but it was too late.

Neal's smile spread, slow and self-assured, a con smile, probably more reflex than calculation. He pointedly poured Clinton another scotch. Trying to get him drunk again, recreate a lost opportunity.

"Listen," said Clinton, holding up his hand to stop the flow of liquor, "if you want to drink or talk or play chess, I'm happy to be a distraction. But if you want more than that—" He took a breath and looked up. Neal's con smile was receding, his gaze serious. Clinton swallowed and made himself say it. "If you want more, then it has to be more. And this isn't the time for that." He took a mouthful of scotch, barely tasting it now, feeling the glow of intoxication but not letting himself sink into it. He leaned his back against the wall, surveying Neal's apartment, the warm lamplight, the clutter of books and art. Not the average living conditions of a felon on parole, but there wasn't much about Neal that was average. And hell, if they were having this conversation, he might as well satisfy his own curiosity. He slanted a look at Neal, who was still watching him. "Anyway, what about—?"

"What?"

Clinton kept his tone light. "I was under the impression you had your eye on my boss."

Neal paused with his glass halfway to his lips, and then drank slowly, apparently considering his response.

"I answered your question," Clinton reminded him.

Neal ducked his head, acknowledging the justice of that, and turned back to stare out over the city. The two of them, side-by-side, facing in different directions. "Peter is—" He shook his head. "Okay, I can't honestly say I never thought about it, but even before all this, it wasn't a possibility."

He said it with uncharacteristic finality. Clinton raised his eyebrows. "That's never stopped you before."

Neal's mouth twisted. "Peter's different. He's straight, and even if he wasn't, he's out of bounds. Elizabeth said—" He trailed off, his eyes trained on some indefinable point near the horizon.

Clinton's stomach lurched like he'd missed a step. Neal was Neal, and it shouldn't come as a shock that he'd seriously considered going after Peter, that he'd cased the Burkes' relationship as if it were a museum, but it felt like a sucker punch all the same. "You asked her?"

"Not directly, but yeah, years ago. She said she won't share." Neal shrugged, and his jaw tightened. "And I'd never do anything to hurt her."

That was as much about Keller and the last week as it was about Peter.

"I know," said Clinton. He swirled the scotch in his glass, and gave voice to his underlying suspicion, the question that had nagged at him ever since he'd begun to see Neal as more than a colleague. "Do you love him?"

Neal shook his head, but it wasn't a straight-out denial. "I don't know," he said. "I think it's one part love, three parts envy." He inched closer, till his shoulder pressed lightly against Clinton's, and added in a low voice, "But I think about you. I think about you a lot, what might have happened if Isabel hadn't showed up that night. What might still happen, given half a chance."

Despite all his best intentions, Clinton couldn't make himself move away. His breath caught, and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. "It's been a nightmare of a week," he said. "This is a really bad time for you to be starting anything."

"You're right." For a moment Neal didn't move, his shoulder was hot and hard against Clinton's, and Clinton had to fight to keep from returning the pressure, from leaning in and pressing his lips to Neal's neck, licking the corner of his jaw. Then Neal withdrew, a subtle redistribution, and the moment passed. He hunched over the parapet, and his words were muffled. "I just really need something good to happen."

Clinton ached for him, attraction multiplied by compassion. Neal had disappointed everyone whose opinion he valued most. He was alone and lonely, and Clinton could help him with that. He could and damn but he wanted to. Desire and pity warred with self-preservation and propriety, and if Neal had sent so much as a look of encouragement his way at that moment, Clinton would have thrown caution to the wind and let himself fall. But Neal was distracted with his misery, and that gave Clinton time to get himself back under control. He could offer comfort without it being about sex.

"Hey, you're—" He touched Neal's arm. "Look at me. It's going to be okay. Peter could have sent you back to prison, but he didn't. June could have kicked you out—she didn't. You disappointed them, sure, but they care about you and they'll forgive you. Give them some time." Neal dropped his head, and Clinton caught him by the shoulder and hauled him close. "Hey, come here."

He wrapped his arms around him and held him through a momentary rigid resistance to acceptance, and then Neal settled against him with a sigh. Clinton pressed Neal's face to his shoulder and hugged tight, feeling stupidly protective.

"You're okay," he murmured in Neal's ear. Neal snorted softly, but he didn't pull back, and his hands stayed above Clinton's waist.

The orchestral music across the street crescendoed and died away, and neither of them moved. It was a hug, just a hug, but Clinton couldn't bring himself to release Neal, and Neal didn't seem in any hurry to break free. The hug was turning into an embrace. A flush spread up the back of Clinton's neck. He was self-conscious, aware of the feel of his clothes against his skin, aware of Neal's body hard up against his own, the rise and fall of Neal's breath.

Neal raised his head, his hair tickling Clinton's chin. "You hear that?"

Clinton listened past the caramel of his voice, through the eternal traffic hum. From somewhere off in the distance, so faint he wasn't sure if he was imagining it, he heard a tune with a slow Latin beat.

"The Stravinsky must have been drowning it out," said Neal. "Want to dance?" He was already shifting in time, from foot to foot as if he couldn't help himself, his misery apparently forgotten.

"Neal—" Clinton should let go, he knew that, but Neal shushed him and they swayed together, carefully so the rustle of their bodies wouldn't drown out the music. Clinton swallowed hard, getting turned on despite his best intentions.

Neal's lips whispered past his ear, across his cheek. "So, exactly how long do we have to wait?" His breath was hot on the corner of Clinton's mouth, so close. "How many days till it's not you taking advantage or me drowning my sorrows?"

"I don't know," said Clinton. Only a few minutes ago, he'd been sure it was too soon, that Neal would regret it or change his mind. Sure that delayed rejection with its attendant complications was the worst possible outcome. Now, in the spell cast by Neal's proximity and a rhythm that was more silence than music, he wasn't sure of anything. It would take nothing at all to turn his head a few degrees and meet Neal's lips. Neal wanted to; he'd said he'd been thinking about it. And if it all went to hell, at least Clinton would've had this.

"How about a week?" said Neal, but Clinton was already giving in, his eyes falling shut and his mouth seeking Neal's, swallowing the words whole and feeling the slide of Neal's tongue, hot and slick in his mouth. Clinton fisted his hands in Neal's shirt and dragged him even closer, and there, God, there was the pressure of Neal's erection, undeniable proof that this was mutual, that even if this was only solace, Neal wanted Clinton too.

Clinton tore his mouth free, his head swimming with lust, chest heaving. Neal was kissing down his neck. He bit lightly just above the collar, and Clinton groaned. "Okay. A week."

"It's a long time to wait," murmured Neal. His hand was on Clinton's face, his mouth reclaiming Clinton's, hungry and unashamed. He pushed Clinton back against the parapet and leaned in, sliding his thigh between Clinton's legs, sending a bright shimmer of pleasure coursing through Clinton's body.

"A week," said Clinton, stubbornly clinging to coherence. "And either of us can, uh—can have second thoughts." Neal's fingertips had dipped inside his pants, were stroking under the waistband of his boxers, making Clinton gasp. "After that, if anything happens between us, I clear it with the Bureau."

"That's a lot of rules," said Neal, equally breathless.

"Which we're already breaking." Clinton pulled Neal's tie free and fumbled with the top couple of buttons of his shirt. He rubbed his thumb across the soft hollow at the base of Neal's throat. The skin was slightly sweaty—or maybe that was his hand. He was so turned on, he thought he might combust.

"There is that." Neal's drawl vibrated under Clinton's fingers. "I have to say, Clinton, I appreciate your willingness to be flexible." It might have come off as too smug if he hadn't been tugging Clinton's shirt free of his pants, and nudging their hips together, over and over. Even with that, there was a definite smirk in his voice, so Clinton kissed him, partly to shut him up.

Only partly. Neal was a phenomenal kisser. He was also apparently a man with a plan. He caught Clinton's hand and drew it inch by inch between them down his body, over the fine cotton shirt covering his chest and stomach, down over his belt to the hard intimate outline of his cock. A groan lodged in the back of Clinton's throat and was echoed in Neal's mouth, in their kiss. Oh God, they were going to do this.

Clinton rubbed Neal through his pants, unable to help himself, glorying in the way Neal's hips twisted in response. And then Neal's hand was on him, fumbling and urgent on his erection, and everything kicked into high gear, blurring into a frenzy, momentum sweeping them away. Clinton ignored the voice in the back of his head saying they were outdoors, that technically they were in public or, at best, in June's territory. It was dark enough, private enough, and Neal wasn't worried. There, _there,_ Neal's hand was inside Clinton's clothes, was wrapping around his bare cock, taking possession. Clinton reached for Neal's belt, delved into his clothes and touched him, thick and velvet taut, started stroking him, speeding up, following Neal's lead.

Their kisses became as messy and frantic as the movement of their hands. Neal did something down there, Clinton had no idea what but it zinged through Clinton, made him gasp and arch involuntarily into Neal's grasp. He nearly lost Neal's mouth, but Neal surged after him, wonderfully persistent. Clinton slung an arm around Neal's neck to anchor them together and felt the familiar pressure start to gather and build, familiar but exciting, more intense than it had been in years. His heart was thundering, affection and attraction and sex tangled up in a pulsing knot in his belly. This was Neal, who he'd wanted for months, and they shouldn't be doing this, there was a reason, probably a damned good one, but he couldn't stop, couldn't, because now, _now—_

"Oh Jesus," muttered Neal, hoarsely. "I'm done." His cock pulsed in Clinton's hand, Neal Caffrey coming in his arms.

The knowledge was like a lens, focusing the growing tension in Clinton until it was laser bright. He said something probably unintelligible, he wasn't even sure, but Neal gripped his shoulder tight and said, "Hey, I've got you," and that was enough. Clinton's orgasm hit like a gunshot, cutting through everything else, paring the moment down to the two of them and the thick sweet pang of orgasm. Clinton felt high and out of control. He leaned against Neal, waiting for his heart to slow and his body to stop tingling and condense back into a solid discrete thing.

His hand was wet, and Neal was lax against him, catching his breath. "Uhng."

Clinton breathed a laugh and pressed his lips to Neal's ear, which was the most readily accessible part of him. Neal pried himself up a little and kissed him hard, then pulled back, smiling. His eyes were serious. "Okay?"

"Mmm." Clinton wiped his hand on Neal's shirt which, after all, was already stained, and pulled him close. "Good. Great. How about you?"

As if in answer, Neal nipped at the side of Clinton's neck, then licked away the sting. "You really think the Bureau's going to let us keep doing this, if you tell them?"

Clinton closed his eyes. It was too soon to ask if Neal meant that, if he wanted to pursue this. But his concern was enough to raise Clinton's hopes. Big, serious hopes. He hid behind a joke. "You're Neal Caffrey. Are you saying you can't convince Peter to go along with this?"

Neal took the teasing more seriously than Clinton intended. "I'm not exactly in his good books right now."

Clinton clasped the side of Neal's neck and kissed his mouth, trying to express his feelings without the awkwardness of words. Trying to confess: _I'm falling in love with you._ Neal kissed back but his brow was furrowed. Apparently that wasn't the reassurance he needed. Clinton broke away gently and locked gazes with him. "Listen, you're not my CI. And I don't know if you've noticed, but Peter's been known to cut you slack from time to time. And you were the reason we found Elizabeth. It might take him a while to get used to the idea, but I'm pretty sure we'll be okay."

"Okay." Neal's forehead cleared. "Good." He leaned in, resting against Clinton, their bodies pressed together from chest to knee. It felt fantastic.

"He'll probably decide I'm a good influence," said Clinton. He buried his nose in Neal's hair and breathed in the combined scent of shampoo and sex. "Uh, hey, you should know something: I'm not going to cover for you if you break the law. That's one rule I'm sticking to, so don't do anything stupid." Neal raised his head and gave Clinton his wide-eyed _Who, me?_ look, even batted his eyelashes, so fake that Clinton's heart sank. "Neal?"

Neal winked, performance over. "I won't," he said. "I promise."

Relief made Clinton growl, but then he laughed too. That was Neal all over. He cuffed the back of his head, and Neal just grinned and took him by the hand. "Come on," he said. "Come inside."

 

END


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